


When We Ask The Reason

by too_much_in_the_sun



Category: Herbert West - Reanimator - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Canon Era, Curtain Fic, Five Times, Fluff, M/M, dumbasses in love, other Lovecraft characters + places mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 10:43:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16973097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/too_much_in_the_sun/pseuds/too_much_in_the_sun
Summary: [Or: three times Herbert West did not enjoy himself, and one time he did. ]As their partnership continues, the Narrator does his level best to introduce Herbert West to some of the little joys of domestic life. It doesn't always go as planned.





	When We Ask The Reason

**Author's Note:**

> I'm unoriginal and just named the Narrator after his equivalent in the movies. I've tried to be more-or-less historically accurate here, but my house is built on Lies. 
> 
> Planning for four chapters, but we'll see how that goes.

Dan Cain has been Herbert West’s companion and assistant for the majority of his adult life. West is a private person, and it’s a rare thing for Cain to understand him completely.

What he’s known about West from the start is this: the man simply does not know how to have fun.

This has not stopped Cain from trying to teach him.

* * *

Three months after the incident with the salesman, he decides to try the movies. He’s been keeping an eye on newspapers and advertisements for months now, and finally there’s something that West might be willing to sit through.

Admittedly, it takes a little persuasion to convince _Cain_ that the film’s worth the trip into Arkham. At first he’d passed it up as not worth the trouble. But after receiving a rare, unprompted letter from Henry Armitage that _just happens_ to extol the virtues of the film, Cain gives in and decides it’s meant to be. If nothing else, it’ll get them out of the house.

Which is something West could sorely use, Cain realizes, as he descends the stairs to the basement lab. The last time West made a house call would have been in June or July, and he’s not sure the last time he saw West leave the house for a purpose that _wasn’t_ work.

The rest of the house isn’t exactly tropical, given that it’s October, but the basement is freezing -- Cain is glad that he’s wearing a sweater. He’s not surprised to see that West has stripped down to his shirtsleeves. Far from being cold-blooded, as some of their classmates at Miskatonic once hinted, West is more like some predatory mammalian denizen of the hyperboreal regions; deceptively small and fluffy he may be, but nevertheless, he is deadly. And hot-blooded.

At least on this particular morning, he’s in the corner by the furnace, Cain reasons. That’s got to count for something.

The first winter they lived in this house, he came downstairs late one evening to find West nearly unconscious at one of the lab benches. When he failed to respond more than faintly either to his name being called or to being shaken by the shoulders, Cain had become a little frantic. He had scooped West up like a tired child and carted him upstairs at once.

West had not been especially pleased to awaken with a blanket around his shoulders, a hot water bottle in his lap, and an anxious assistant hovering nearby. But he had allowed Cain to force a mug of tea on him before he returned to the basement, and from Herbert West, that was a highly unusual display of human feeling.

So, if nothing else, at least West is conscious today.

“Hey, Herbert,” Cain says, the better not to startle him.

As usual, West doesn’t even look up from his notebook. “Dan. What is it?”

“Going into Arkham,” he says. “You’re coming, by the way – that book you ordered has come in at the bookstore. And you could use the break.”

The part about the book is even true. It’s just not the main reason that Cain wants to get out of the house.

West sighs. “It can wait until tomorrow. And I do _not_ ‘need a break’.”

“Yes, you do,” says Cain. To his fond, familiar eye, it’s obvious that, though West is as fastidiously neat in his dress as ever, there are bruise-dark circles under his eyes, and his hand trembles ever so slightly as he writes. The pale enthusiast is looking paler than usual. “Come on,” Cain says, wheedling. “I’ll have you back by dark. I promise.”

West sighs and sets down his pencil. “Fine.”

The walk up to the train station is mostly-silent and cold, and Cain watches West with a wary eye the whole way. The autumn air is brisk, but it brings only the faintest hint of color to West’s cheeks; as the years go by, the waxen pallor of his skin only seems to increase, though his features are as youthful as when they first met.

The past two years have not been particularly kind to them, in general. Bolton is not the place to build a lasting medical practice. There’s no shortage of work, and Cain would be content to stay here as a general practitioner, much as his professors would be disappointed. (“Wasting your potential” is the phrase that comes to mind.)

The problem is West, who, though he rarely mentions it aloud, hates the place with a seething passion. Not just that it’s beneath him, but that there never seems to be enough... material for his work. He doesn’t talk about it directly, but it’s clear he’s itching for something better. There’s no place in this dirty little mill town for a surgical prodigy.

Which is unquestionably what West is, Cain thinks, as the autumn wind chills them and the leaves crunch underfoot. He’s other things as well, but he has an undeniable talent. Cain’s content to be the mediocrity his professors once called him, but West is destined for greater things.

Bolton proper is a little distance from their cottage, but the train terminus lies closer, so as they enter the final patch of woodland that separates them from their destination, Cain calls to his companion. “Herbert. Hey.”

West stops walking and turns to face him. “Yes, Dan?”

He looks completely unreal, in the weak, dusty sunlight that filters through the trees, turning his hair into a crown of gold. The pattern of shadow that lies over him simplifies his features, makes this small, harmless-seeming figure look larger than life. The smudge of coal-dust across one cheekbone only highlights the fineness of his features.

“You’ve got something on your face.” He lifts his gloved hand a little. “Can I-?”

“If you must.” West’s tone is neutral, but he sways closer, closes his eyes, tilts his head a little. His long eyelashes are like a fringe of amber silk against the ivory of his cheeks.

Some undefinable feeling, as sweet and deep and dark as the gulf between the stars, flares in Cain’s heart as he brushes the dust from West’s cheek. This is where he’s laid all his hopes for the future, in this little shadow of a man with his clever hands and deceptively boyish face. This lovely little viper who, for whatever unaccountable reason, trusts him with his life’s work.

The dust brushed away, he pulls his hand back. Of course his glove will need to be cleaned now, but that can wait until they get back home. What’s important is that West is looking at him with an expression he can’t quite read, his blue eyes steady.

Cain clears his throat. “Well, you’re presentable, at least.”

“Thank you, Dan,” West says softly. He straightens up, and jerks his thumb in the direction of the train station. “Now let’s go. You did say we’d be back by dark.”

“Right. Of course. We won’t be long.”

By train, Arkham’s hardly half an hour away – and yet the whole trip, he keeps thinking of West among the trees, his eyes closed, waiting for Cain’s touch.

* * *

West is relatively pleased as they leave the bookstore, though he draws himself up to his full height and tenses his shoulders at the first sight of other people. The bookseller, Zann, has wrapped the imported tome up in butcher paper to protect its binding, and West clutches it closely.

“Where is it you said we were going?” he inquires, tagging along behind Cain as they go down Water street towards the main commercial district.

“I didn’t say. The Athenaeum, if they haven’t changed the name again.”

West looks at him, taken aback. “The _movie theater_?” He says it like it’s a dirty word.

“Yes, Herbert. The movie theater.” He thumps the smaller man on the back in a way he hopes looks chummy, rather than something else. “Come on, you’ll like it.”

“I dare say I won’t,” he says, but follows Cain anyway.

Their timing’s better than Cain had hoped; as they make their way to their seats, the newsreel is just finishing. The main picture’s about to start. Up front, the organist blows his nose loudly.

West shifts in his seat. He’s cradling the book in his lap, petting the paper wrapping absently with one hand. “This had better be worth my time,” he says archly.

Cain elbows him gently. “It’s starting.”

The projector flickers for a moment before the title card blooms to life: the square Edison Studios frame, and the title itself surrounded by flourishes: _Frankenstein_.

West grabs his arm, his thin fingers pressing into Cain’s bicep. “You _planned_ this,” he hisses into Cain’s ear. “This was all a trick, a, a _device_ to bring me here.”

“Sure was,” Cain agrees, whispering back. “Like I said, you need the break.”

This is the moment the old woman behind them chooses to lean forward and loudly shush them.

The feather on her hat bobs and brushes against Cain’s face as she does, and in the half-light of the theater, he sees a rare thing indeed: Herbert West, stifling a laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> And still can you tell me why do you love me?   
> Only because you are you, dear!
> 
> Not that you are fair, dear,   
> Not that you are true.   
> Not your golden hair, dear,   
> Not your eyes of blue.   
> When we ask the reason,   
> Words are all too few!   
> So I know I love you dear, because you’re you.
> 
> ["[Because You're You](https://digitalcommons.conncoll.edu/sheetmusic/1336/)", Henry Blossom & Victor Herbert, 1906.]


End file.
